


Creep

by cruorecuore



Category: Dexter (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Flirting, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Brutal Murder, Dysfunctional Family, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Hopefully Deb doesn’t kill Brian hahaha, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, Murder Family, Proprietorial Tendencies, Protective Brian Moser, Protective Debra Morgan, Psychological Trauma, Psychopaths In Love, Sarcasm, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, Song: Creep (Radiohead), that’d be a terrible ending ahha
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:40:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24284494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruorecuore/pseuds/cruorecuore
Summary: Dexter Morgan made a questionably gutsy decision in choosing to let Brian Moser go the night of his sister’s kidnapping. He thinks it was the right decision, just until Moser shows on his doorstep, offering him a better life of immorality and true freedom.
Relationships: Debra Morgan/Brian Moser, Debra Morgan/Joey Quinn, Dexter Morgan/Brian Moser, Rita Bennett/Dexter Morgan
Comments: 12
Kudos: 48





	1. Volatile Gift

‘ _Too much trust sometimes can kill you_ ,’ is how the saying went, but in Dexter’s case it was, ‘ _any trust at all can kill you_.’

The Dark Passenger was never quite the knight in shining armour he needed to deem him a better life. Or a more stable one. He, or rather Harry, would never allow him to drift into its obscurity, would always give him some sort of handle or reason over it (even if it meant sacrificing a night’s dinner with Deb, or a coffee at Sadie’s for a kill and a midnight tread on the moonlight water).

But tonight had been different. Tonight, the thought of bringing death to someone with his very hands, and not by conceptual mutilation means (even despite any onlookers) sounded heavenly. Sure, he was a methodical man with more interest to gore than love, but he had uncontrollable desires that would eventually consume his thoughts. The Dark Passenger handled these thoughts, but never without a twist.

The sky is some blended mess of amber and spruce blue accompanied by some sporadic cracks of thunder. The concrete is wet, dampened by the cloudburst that went about earlier that morning. Dexter Morgan is walking the lonesome night streets of Miami, warming his hands into the pockets of his khakis and looking to alleviate those darknesses and growing strains lurking in the hinds of his mind.

As if that couldn’t be considered a burden enough, Debra was extra persistent about their upcoming engagement. Said it’d be a practical aid in their dysfunctional relationship. Actually, it was more of a demand than anything, and even with his inner (hidden) aches from the days before, he knew he owed her one, and she, him, even if it was just some porterhouses and beer. Dexter found it in him to cut a retreat back to his apartment, wind buzzing through his hair before he is bathed in acuity. He shuts the door noiselessly, heeding the sounds of clinking glass as he stealthily advanced for the kitchen. The fridge is open, a clean-limbed figure clad in black partly crouched into it, one hand on the flat of the fridge door and the other rummaging around for a beer. Dexter curses himself for not having a syringe on him, but carried on his clandestine forging, tanned arms extended in prep to grab the man into a chokehold.

 _Someone broke into my apartment and is looking for a beer_ , Dexter bitterly thinks to himself, already envisioning the multitude of questions he'd ask the man once he was bound to a table by plastic. He’d almost chuckle, and he had once his arms enveloped around the hooded man’s throat, constricting the air travel to knock him out long enough for him to retrieve his tranquilliser. “I’m not quite the informidable opponent you’re looking for.” A choke comes from his victim, and Dexter gives a satisfied grunt, aligning his spine upwards for a better grasp. “Shame my night would be ruined by a _scoundrel_ like you.”

The stranger’s elbow impaled itself into Dexter’s gut, immediately slackening his grip. He stumbles backwards, heaving outwards through his teeth as he vaguely doubled-over. He doesn’t waste another second, another misspend moment, to bolt forward, pouncing the man into the planed surface of the fridge like an animal, gritting with anger. This time he makes sure there is no likelihood of escape, and to prove his point, he rolls his eyes upward to inspect this man’s face, still lightly regaining his breath. The man has ebony hair that sticks to the skin of his forehead, scraggly, rigid in waves and half curls that bunch and peel. Pink lips, dry, slither into a smile for an unconventional attempt at a greeting but it's something much more. “Dex.”

Brian is giving him a formless hello, though all Dexter can do is focus on the growing resentment simmering in his chest. At the same time, even if it was somewhat indecipherable, relief seemed to also be building its bridges. “I thought I told you never to return to Miami,” Dexter grimly replied, and it was the only thing he could say. He sees the slight twinge of displeasure peak in Brian’s face, likely from the lack of greeting in response.

“Yeah, well, we all know that’s inevitable,” Brian drawled out, faintly raising his dusky brows. He’s looking at the ginger vaingloriously, not at all bothered by the impending combinations hailing from their circumstances.

Brian isn’t pissing his pants, but Dexter doesn't expect him to. In fact, Dexter feels the irksome sensation of melancholy, which quickly weeds out all the anger and hatred. He recalled on the moment that Brian Moser was strapped to a table, forehead flat on his, listening to his words and noting the desolation and devotion in his eyes that are lustrous with tears. He let him go that night, falling back against the wall, out of breath, not able to see Moser slip on his clothes and scramble out into the night for a good year and a half. “I should’ve killed you when I had the chance.”

Dexter’s voice hadn’t wavered, but Brian was able to see through it; he’s lightly grazed, but the wound doesn’t bleed. “Great catch. Believe that ship has already sailed.” His brows curve. 

Dexter isn’t great at keeping his composure, especially when it came to uncovering true, unexpected similarities. “Where were you.. all this time?”

“I go where the wind takes me, little brother.”

“So you just happen to drift upon my doorstep?”

“Guess you can say fortune smiles down on me.”

Dexter catches himself drowning in the depths of his emotions. He reaped a massage for his forehead, a pattern between thumbing his temple and rashly gesturing out towards the man who watched from against the fridge. “You can’t be _here_ , Brian.”

Brian frowned, not at his brother’s words but at his choice of tone; aversion, as if him returning was really the worst thing on this (categorically unavailing) earth. “Guess you.. aren’t yet out of that white lie.” He smiled for a split second to show the blunt yet subtle sarcasm over his wrinkled features before prying himself away.

“It’s not.. that,” Dexter spoke up, though the short-lived linkage of their eyes lets him think otherwise. He hadn’t desired anymore chains of insults directed towards Deb. He knew he wouldn’t be able to defend her with him being just as morose. “God. Things are.. finally going good.”

Except they’re not. Miami Metro had just recently caught onto his discarded bodies. Maria is striving a little too close for comfort.

“‘Good?’ _Really_?” Brian subtly breathed through tightened teeth, unveiling his disbelief. Dexter already knew that Brian would know something was up without having to spill as much as a word. “You’re living in a dead cop’s fairytale. I’m offering you freedom, Dexter. You’ll be invulnerable.”

Brian promised liberty, but Dexter already had it. Brian was, in truths, offering a killing spree with no restrictions, no limit, and most importantly, no code. Dexter pauses. “As tempting as that sounds, I’ll be busy with Deb tonight, and the last thing we need is you adding to our prolonged family _feud_.” The analyst slithered his tan fingers into ebony gloves, timorously glancing from his dim green henley to Brian’s prominent bones that are hidden beneath tanned skin, which furrows into disgruntled amusement. Brian also knew where exactly that would lead to, so Dexter is quick to glower and add, “I prefer Deb alive.”

“A prima facie case.” Dexter doesn’t bother to further distract himself by the other’s words, instead moving to stride for his needed belongings that currently resided in his bedroom. Brian shortly followed after his life-long obsession. “You took me off that table because I mean something to you.”

The ginger lifted his brows while in the action of stripping himself of his shirt, unintentionally already in a much more light-hearted way of thinking. “You’re my brother.”

There is a wordless pause, though not necessarily eerie but enough to turn on the buttons of Dexter’s awareness. Brian’s basil eyes flicker on his attire. “Relieving your desires?”

He wanted to join him. That would be the start of something new, maybe the start of something terrible and beyond comprehensible, which was the last thing Dexter needed; a partner-in-crime, one with no morals or care for those that he slaughtered. The look in Dexter’s eyes are dark. “Thanks, but, uh.. going against protocol really isn’t my shtick.

“But big brother Bynie pushing up daises is?” Dexter frowned at the abrupt spike of bitterness, and reasonably contemplated the righteousness of that thought. Brian sees it. Likes it, though remained his impactful observations from the discoloured doorframe. “If you want me to coat the envelope with glitter, I’d do it with glee.”

The red-haired analyst was unable to withhold a sigh. Brian couldn’t stay here, Deb was coming. And if he let him go, god knew what he’d do or who’d he kill. At least with him, Dexter could have some control over him. Brian easily read him, is already moving out from the bedroom door with a waving palm. “I know the score, baby brother.”

Dexter Morgan is not a simpleminded man, is respectfully the opposite, but he intercepts the growing bubble of thoughts and the possible darkness that lingers by. After triple assuring himself that he had, indeed, locked his door, he trampled down the steps and made forth to his car, momentarily taking pleasure of the midnight breeze that whisks through his bloodnut strands and broad features. His eyes take a load of the gaunt man leaning against his car, warming his erudite hands into that of the pockets of his hoodie. His hood is on, tawny textured strands sticking out like cowlicks. His brows are raised, encircled by gentle wrinkles and naturally wide eyes; an a thrilled grin. Dexter doesn’t need to try to not mirror it, breath momentarily stolen by a little hellish rogue. He seemed to also be staring into the eyes of one.

“You comin’?”

Dexter shook himself from his impenetrable thoughts, rushing for the driver seat, car keys dangling. “‘Course.”

**________**

Brian Moser is rigidly seated in the right side of the car, elbows perched over anything that could even be deemed an armrest. He stares through the window with disinterest for a mute minute’s worth before lazily wringing around his hands, rugged and blunt-nailed. “Didn’t expect this soirée to be as lousy as the last.” A disappointment, to sum it up, but Brian was never really soft with his words. The younger Moser ducked down into the car, attention hurled towards the mundane mechanics of his vehicle. Dexter’s leather hand reached for the frontal mirror and dim eyes merely watch from the passenger seat. “Thought it’d involve some.. meaningful wistfulness.”

“I’m not sure if moping around about the past really suits us,” Dexter replies with some distant darkness, eyeing the bitter manner of his brother crane his head backwards into the cushion of the seat. Them being psychopaths, at least by Brian's terms, it’d only make sense.

“You build your way of life around the past, little brother.” Brian wasn't wrong, but Brian also implied that he didn't do what Dexter did. He did what he wanted, and what he wanted solely revolved around the present. “Your freedom isn’t yet checked from the blacklist.”

Dexter is dismally marvelling over a chain of thoughts. Mixed thoughts, thoughts that dally between the cracks of normal and broken. “Freedom. You say it like it’s some _earn-able ambition_.”

“It might as well be,” Brian half shrugged, yearning the warmth of Dexter’s apartment and sentimental taste of microbrew. “You’re a stick in the mud, Dexter. Sucker me down for trying to help you stop following high school _rules_.”

“You aren’t helping me.”

“And neither is Harry’s Code, but you’re right as rain, hm?” Brian raises his brows. They share a glance; amused and unamused. “You’re a serial killer. You can’t sugarcoat that by calling yourself a hero.”

“I’m not some psychopath,” Dexter exhaled, almost appreciating the infrequent night breeze that comes with the opening of the car windows. Almost. “Harry’s Code is what allows me to ebb out my dark desires in the most safest way possible.”

“There’s no way to safely _kill someone_ , Dex.”

A click of a vehicle, a yard’s worth away emitted into the air, calling in both of the Mosers’ attention. A woman, seemingly favouring her arm, wandered the sidewalk away from her freshly locked car. Dexter doesn’t give her anything more than a glance, though Brian is the opposite, scrutinising her every inch of movement, eyes as round as the moon that almost hung high. Dexter dismissively bores at him.

“You’re no fun.”

They hastily back out of the parking space, Dexter taking glances over his seat with his tongue dallying in the corner of his mouth, out of habit. Warily peering over and perceiving that deplorably familiar face with age lines creased over his pressed lips that then form a neutral frown, Dexter gripped the steering wheel. Brian’s untamed brows cleave upwards in that way that makes him look as if he pitied everything. He also has this aura of superiority, untouchability, the same aura Harry had whenever he towered over Dexter’s shoulder, judging his every move. It put him into a jumble, and he isn't even sure whether the Brian he's talking to is a hallucination or not.

“I remember that day,” Dexter began blandly, strongly desiring a change of subject which he ventures after. “That day we played hide and seek on our picturesque porch. I was hiding behind a verdant green bush. She found me first.”

Brian is wordless, watching Dexter in that heavily perusing way that gyrates his flesh into pins and needles. In the abrupt upbringing of their mother, the brunet is unhelpfully dragged into the memory, accompanied by the phantom of an exaggerated sigh.

“‘Where’s my baby?’” It’s hesitant, but it does come out, although greatly deficient of the bliss his mother always conveyed when in the presence of her two beloved children. The action brings a tender qualm to his stomach, yet he foolishly continues to dolefully mimic his late mother. “‘Where’s my Dexter?’”

”She asked where I was hiding, and you told her,” Brian carried on for him, though not necessarily in the direction Dexter had his heart set on. Brimming of a degree of apathy, Brian partly swivelled, which was not exactly elegant because he wasn’t an elegant man but he looked at his brother, nonetheless, face completely wiped of any emotion. Slowly, his gracile lips recline to show his teeth. “You were always the favourite.”

Brian tells lies, but this was the unpalatable truth. What he said had Dexter holding that view, always had, from the moment the cops showed into that shipping container to where he chose Debra over him. There wasn’t a doubt of where he hadn’t considered that the brunet was currently holding up a dispute between his own mind and the incoming mementos of their disintegrated childhood. He had to be immersed in distress or realisation, but the number of glances Dexter gives to substantiate that thought regressed. Brian looked insouciant. Maybe he didn’t care.

“You look just like her.” Perhaps it was wrong of him to compare Moser to their bawd of a mother, her and her psychedelic fingernails, but Dexter was never the best at conversations.

Brian makes a little hum, simply demonstrating his displeasure as he only adjusted himself in the passenger seat, chin perched against a knuckle of an arm that is alighted on the inner windowsill. Brian doesn’t bother giving a motion of his head, just adverts his eyes to the edges of its sockets. 

Gradually, the exigence to think held Dexter still, skewered him onto the poignancy of reality. The driving wheel he had been holding onto is quickly grasped, tight enough to melt into virulent liquid that would stain his shoes. Brian seemed to have noticed, though doesn’t move much from his reclined position. When Dexter looked at him to show him his undying anger, the central enmity at the wordless suggestion, Brian doesn’t look the least bit bothered. “You were the repairman.”

Joe Driscoll suffered a seizure, the predominant cause of death, at least, that was what Dexter Morgan concluded. The body was cremated, stacking another layer to his exasperation. Joe could still be alive, sharing a beer with his son as they talked over the memories and affairs of little Ms. Laura Moser, if it weren’t for the slip of a sedative. Dexter remembers the old lady. He feels some type of frenetic anger that he hasn’t ever felt before.

“He left us.” Inching closer, Brian unveiled his interest, perhaps even the unseen remnants of sensuality that mantle over the ginger man so well it may have just been a funeral shroud. Brian breathed into his space, a twitch in his dim eyes, and the slant of a crimson shadow shading his features; a devil beneath the stoplight.

Joe wasn’t a good man, never had been. He caused Laura’s death and Dexter would never get the chance to evaluate on it.

Brian wouldn’t get another answer because he didn’t deserve one. Morgan pried his loathing gaze from the firm greyness of the wheel to see that craggy face, lacking a hood, baring disheveled hair and the natural look of commiseration. He looked the same he had the night he’d been betrayed. Dexter steadily blinked. When he flared up his mind for making a mistake, he would then make another. Brian’s smiling. He’s got these green eyes that look black in the moonlight, and when it becomes much too unbearable, despite their neglected seatbelts, Dexter floored it. 

**________**

The place is relatively small, nothing more than a joint for pick-up and drive-thru meals. The sky is starless, as black as coal and smelt strongly of forthcoming rain. The moon is full, as rotund as his intramural, bloodthirsty desires. Dexter Morgan groped for the manual bump of a syringe in his cargo pants. He’s ready. A sound emits from the right side of the vehicle, quickly drawing in his attention with a lined parting of his lips. “You should wear something else for a change,” the man says steadily, matching the movement of his eyes. “Not that I’m complaining. Change is inevitable.”

Dexter gives him a bad eye before promptly inspecting each corner of the building in searches of people. Brian turned to him then, watching him practically lour at him while removing the keys to be slipped into his hind pocket. Brian is visibly annoyed. “I won’t key you, Dexter.”

“I’m not really interested in a dicey game of ‘ _gambling my life_ ’ right now, Rudy.” Dexter gives a nonchalant hiss of air through his teeth, monitoring the area once more.

Brian furrows. The forensics analyst refused another meeting of their eyes, moving to exit the vehicle. Laurence Kramer and his sinful acts reiterated itself through his mind. The thrill of the impending kill already infusing through the threads of his bloodstream which just as quickly snowballs into ice as a voice called out to him, the same dark one from before. “Dex!”

The analyst turned, partially bristled, gripping the leather gloves in his fists enough to build up pleats. The older man thoughtlessly situated his legs over the glove department box, comfortably intersecting his ankles as his unsusceptible hand moved to adjust the slant of the seat. He does peer through the crack of the door, head against the tinted window as he boasted an intriguing face. “I’m rooting for you.”

Dexter Morgan is prepping for a murder right in the eyes of this man, who’s reasonably unbothered. “Uh, thanks,” he replied inexpressively, although he knew well of the stupefaction and even rolled his eyes to show so.

He shut the door with force, which was not the smartest thing ever, but he had his reasons. He was riled up, and the only thing to ease the elation of The Dark Passenger was to claim another kill, fill another film of blood. He strode for the tail of the building with some reasonably poised self-assurance, either thumb wrenched into each palm by his sides. Lawrence Kramer is not a direct employee, but a janitor. Dexter diligently hunkered down behind the sizeable trash bins, fishing out the needle to remove the safety tube with his teeth. The waiting process. He was usually a patient man, but crouched in that dim alleyway with no possible sights of his car left him almost jouncing on his bent feet. Dexter doesn't make another mindless error to let his mind fall into the abyss of his childhood despite the indistinguishable crave to. The back way entrance sonorously echoed, the heavy clinking of a deadbolt and the proceeding yawn of metal scraping against metal. Kramer is short, no more than 5’6, stout and old and is tuning out the very audible shuffling of Dexter’s shoes with earbuds. He holds two trash bags that are generously stuff, one dangling and the other hooked over a shoulder.

Without a hitch, Dexter collared the man's throat in his folded elbow, the folds of his corpulent aged back pressing into Dexter's built chest. The saviour of the night, the needle’s tip, the reliving poison, outpours the man’s system who lets out a grunt. The detestable part of his kills was the transferring of the body. It was always a touch-and-go. He never knew when and who could slip in and get a wind of his true obsession. He gave a low curse, staggering back a foot and another when the unconscious body lurched itself onto him. Kramer was twice as heavier than he looked.

“Looks as if you’re in need of some assistance, little brother.” Down the alley path lay the broad resemblance of the figure once at his door, offering porterhouses and a pack of microbrew. The serial murderer's head is faintly angled with upturned brows, the same look of innocence he’d given him that night. This time, it really was pity.

“Get back in the car,” Dexter gave out a mangled grunt, managing to still pinch the protective plastic tube between his teeth as he thrust the unconscious man upwards. He’d also ask him how he’d got out, but that is fathomably simple.

The aged man took neat strides, downcast attire ridden on the man with apparent repulsion as lowered to grasp fleshy weight. “You know it wouldn’t kill you to call in a favour.”

Dexter is quiet for a moment, warming his lips together as he objected the decision to shred a humoured tone. “Yeah, I’ll be sure to tell Deb to set up the next kill-room.”

Morgan’s eyes are weary, but Moser doesn’t question it, ostensibly electing silence. He doesn’t comply with mirth, likely from the abrupt broaching of a certain foster sister that he hadn’t yet come to terms with as being a stationary sibling to Dex. Though, remarkably, they’re able to work jointly in loading the paunchy man into the car trunk. Well, almost. The analyst is fumbling, a strict sequence of grabbling at his cargos for the sensual passport and a hold on the rather limb man.

To anyone it’d be implausible to not digest the twitching and gritting of the analyst, truculent with the route he’s stuck rolling down on. The brunet watches, just for a moment, scoffing in all his sagacious glory before taking the initiative to unfurl a palm, nimbly drawing out the wicked rabbit from the trouser pocket. Focus although not, unreasonably forlorn hazel eyes move upwards to make an attempt at crudely boring at those vacant green ones, but goes neglected. Dexter thinks about the scarcity of the situation, bitterly thinks about how he’d never allow it to happen again because this was his battle, not a war. Once the body was settled in, Dexter didn’t lose another second to heave and slip into the front door, leaving the other to shut the trunk. He strips himself of the gloves, swipes down his palms over his green shirt and as the passenger door clamorously opened and then shut, he wondered if this was real.

Dexter shook himself out of that superfluous nonsense, thumbs moving for the compact wheel but the engine is keyless. Reluctantly glancing aside, the exotic brunet dangled out some metal slivers, smugly smiling. Dexter unrelentingly snatches them, but lingers in the parking space as he recalled on the acidic warmth of his brother’s assurance. He rooted for him, and Dexter was actually believing it to have roots embedding into his brain, affecting his inner nature.

“Gauging my words?”

Dexter meets his gaze expressionlessly, features wrinkling in disbelief. “That’s not what I’m thinking about.”

Brian smiled, sensing the shadow of a lie but dancing his fingers over to the knob of the radio, cranking the volume but not after dawning the windows.

“Oh, great. Music.” Mathletics, by Foals. Dexter heard this song before, a swift passing of Masuka’s display of music. It was brief, but it stuck to his mind.

The moth-eaten man, pine-coloured eyes and teeming of sanguinary lust, is simpering, not towards anything in particular but is moving in sync with the music. Dexter is regarded with the thought of their weekend at Joe’s where they all danced, on it Dexter because he hardly shuffled. His brow lowered, and although the night was supposed to be made of only grimness and satisfaction, it’s has some lighthearted touch to it. He watched the road and his brother, surprisingly not through the mirror which was angled towards him. They’re on a lightless freeway, huddled by trees and the cogent smell of pine when Brian Moser turned to him. “Faster, Dex.”

Faster? Dexter furrowed his brows. There could be cops, hidden in the trees and waiting. They could stop them, find the body, arrest him. His life would be over. Brian’s palm touches the flatness of the centre console. “Let’s go faster!” Dexter kills the austere figure of Harry in his mind, kicks down the pedal to the floor and as they speed, Brian begins to laugh. And Dexter can only join him. 


	2. Cognisance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants to talk Dexter with me, my Discord is  
> ephemeral pinao#0368

A mere kick to the door is all it takes to wind the large doors open, rumbling echoing across uninhabited metal storage container. It was large, already bedecked in various layers of plastic. The corpulent body is conscientiously lugged onto the metal worktop, stationed in a sense for the forensics specialist to begin raiding the man of his clothes. The greater significance of perseverance when dealing with these types of (sporadic) situations mattered to a degree, but most importantly to the amount of passion that weighed down the darker side of Harry’s scale. Sometimes Dexter Morgan found it unbearable when his prey is curbed with plastic, presented to him in such an intriguing manner he finds it nearly impossible to maintain his composure and to not just claim the soul on the spot. No, he needed to goad at them first, jog up their memories before feasibly dipping the tip of his blade into a naked chest, penetrating the left ventricle.

Dexter issued some touches of air outwards between his lips, situating the flat of the body against the sheathed table. A number of rolls of saran wrap are faithfully located in the corner of the shipping container, bending over one another. Though his eyes merely lay on it, the brunet waved him off, already advancing for it. Brian buckled down at the waist to retrieve the scrolls of plastic, emitting an audible exhale as he retired from the northern side of the container to plop the requisite item into his brother’s leather-clad hands. Their eyes meet for a short-lived second, ignited in the same nature of passion before Dexter began to wrap the man in plastic.

“You always hated bubble wrap.” Dexter’s motley eyes flicker aside at the statement that seemingly derived from out of the blue, questionably inspect the brunet watching carefully from a distance. He gives a distinguishable transition of his tone, even rigidly stooping down his chin to reveal the playful darkness running around those moonless pine eyes. “Was always too loud for you. Made you cry.”

Dexter managed the undeviating motion of unwinding the thin transparent sheets under and over skin, adhering the sluggish words with very little awe. In some measure, he also refinished the familiar glow radiate on the innards of his body. A little too familiar. “You remember a lot about our childhood,” he chooses to reply, drawling it out as much as he could with a solemn sparkle in his eye. “Why tell me the little things?”

Moser’s naked hands pause for a moment as he gives the other a hesitant glance alongside a pause. “Consider it a gift.” His hand continued to meander along the honed edge of the metal table, inclining his jaw as he seemed to visibly fancy the mellow feel of plastic.

A gift. The fundamental tellings of a grotesque childhood, the mere upbringings that bring no more than the vaguest revamping of curved skin. Dexter’s eternal mind, a grave void swimming of death, carnage, and lustrous of rules as he thinks and rethinks about the little red kid screaming. How much Dexter’d do to remember anything but the crimson pool, the shipping cart, his mother’s pleas enough to kill a Herculean horse. Meanwhile Brian has it all, can recall the littlest of principal details but chooses to tell him about _bubble wrap_.

Dexter’s tapered brows narrowed, palm prodding down the last plastic wrap as he partly watched his brunet brother mindlessly wander around the freeness of the shipping container. His leather hand extended for the compact roll of duct tape, cleaving out a strip to lay it on the man’s charred lips. The overlying paunchy limbs are retained, something big brother Brian never turned an eye to because he already knew the ropes, had used his killing style to imitate his victims. It could have some perpetual swings and roundabouts, but Dexter felt the same immeasurable uncertainty eat away him when Harry loomed over his shoulder, judging his every move, his way of thinking. Brian is just as imperious, though all he does in linger by, candidly speaking his mind without being the mother hen Dexter never intended to be.

The rangy man gave a tenacious breath, highlighted features corrugating as he absentmindedly crept towards the black pleated roll, proficient fingers curiously nudging back the bag to unveil a bewitching display of tools. His fain palm shifted to line a finger across the black pockets of the rough polyester. Seemingly tempted but not outright on the blue line, Brian refused to tailor up his features, dangerously treading a taunt against the however infamous Dexter Morgan. “How delightful.”

The sight of Brian compellingly choosing to play a mask of stultified fascination towards his knowingly harmonised collection of tools almost chilled his blood to icicles. Brian’s voice was suffused of sharp derision, undesirably furnishing the analyst a string of emotions and unneeded thoughts, annoying enough to grate at his mind and sit an object between his work. Uncoupled by the (almost reached) tranquility, Dexter waisted down the vision of his eyes, something he was not particularly fond of. “Not sure if I’d ever ask you to recompose your done deeds.”

“My deeds have flatlined,” Brian replied, much more quietly and much more closer than before, lurking the no-longer vacantness behind the red-headed man. “But this is just the beginning of you and I, dear brother.”

Dexter can almost feel the cutis of Brian’s teeth lance through whatever tanned flesh lay exposed from his green shirt. His words, ruinous though meaningful, reverberates down to his myringa, leaves his pulmonary veins pulsating in such a shambling manner. A cold rugged enveloped the brink of his shoulder, and as he’s incessantly moving to crane to see the wearisome features of his elder brother, every nook and cranny, he’s gone in the flash of an eye, a good amount of feet away and notoriously funding that incorrigible, pitiful look. Dexter spares him any more amusement, ripping the everlasting trance into shreds as he proceeded to furnish the plastic-plastered walls in photographs.

The cheap use of trenchancy accompanied by the distant winding down of salient, and most importantly deadly, situations honestly irked Dexter, made him stumble over his emotions which was exactly what Brian squarely desired. “He’s waking up,” Dexter says, yearning another subject, and to a degree, he got it.

As the etorphine waned from the hoary man’s body, his aged eyes skew open, black eyes wildly roving the inside of the shipping container. Brian is temporarily enthralled by the photographs when he swivelled, distinguishing the awakening even with a distance such as his. Mr. Kramer is already agitated, not able to writhe as he wanted but in container position Dexter needed. Dexter ruthlessly slammed the man's chin sideways to show the hanging photos of devastated children, all the while leaning to portray in a bare growl the level of darkness teeming his mind. “Callously ruining the lives of dozens of innocent children. As insouciant as some _storm_.”

Kramer’s head tumbled back, striking the flat table. His derelict sibling closed in the extensive collection of blades, eyes commending the way that the forensics analyst takes ahold of a scalpel, slitting a line in the man’s cheek to opulently pack a blood film. He cheekily glances to the ‘ _victim_ ,’ cherishing the sheer fear and anger in his eyes before it falls onto Dexter.

“A trophy.” Brian sounded genuinely intrigued. Dexter’s leisure gaze then falls on him, a diamond in the rough. “You never considered me worthy of any _memento_.”

It was not enough to bleed, but it stung. Brian needed not to continue, as Dexter already manufactured the next few sloven words in his mind, piecing together the puzzle of that and the pain of one memorable night. Brian is half shrugging, solemn face conspicuously poking at the self-reproach in his brother’s eyes. His green eyes flicker aside, a breath the little push it needed to build a minatory smile as he indirectly directed Dexter’s unalloyed attention towards the irradiant blades. An irresponsibility turning into some bloodshed beyond Dexter’s control if he hadn’t known what cards to play. “Let’s have a playoff.”

Dexter felt the insufferable heat assemble itself inside, deflecting the Dark Passenger’s urges from the very target beneath him. Shake up the foundations. Do something different. He has no reasonable justification for considering the idea even though the familiar handle was already cushioning his gloved hand, parceling the lead thoughts in anarchic ones. Brian stood his ground, guilefully signalling the bag although he needs not any movement. He’s wordlessly gauging Dexter, deriding his choices while suggesting his own lawless ones, bringing to light his skinless desires and the corruption not far behind. Not yet, Dexter’s face read. Rerouting his eyes, he uncharitably tore the tape from Kramer’s face, who devoured an unusual amount of air as leather fingertips intrude the creased skin of his face, loving the seeping red.

Kramer’s ailing eyes unhelpfully greet the glower Dexter provided, whose fingers explored the smooth silver of his blade as he savoured the inching of Kramer’s resentful face. He demanded what Dexter was doing, who he was, but Dexter sees only red. “Who I am is of no importance, Lawrence. Your time is up, is all that matters.”

The air hurtling the backside of the analyst thinned, the somewhat canny presence bellowing its deadly silence. Brian hastened, just for a better view. Dexter ignored him. “You’re gonna fucking kill me, you sick bastard?”

“You have no sympathy for your victims. Why should I show you any?”

The hurled spit doesn’t quite meet Dexter’t cheek as intended, but the trivial attempt still got his goat. Dexter’s right garbed hand unbendingly flattened across the ignoble mouth that had begun to bark insults, the hand bearing the blade dying down to his side. He allowed those words to boil at him, displeasure emptying his entrails.

“I suggest you bite your tongue before you lose it,” Brian tells Kramer, bordering whisper, dark amusement ridden all over his features no secret to the gruesome thought of mincing the man’s tongue pre-mortem. Dexter felt Brian’s green eyes on him suddenly, just as his bitter composure had begun to wilt. The grand figure once again shadowing him at face value made him feel as if were the one withering, not the prey. “It’s time to cash in the chips, little brother.”

Brian’s aware fingers loiter the dressed arms of Dexter, stirring towards his clenched, gloved fist that tended to a sizeable knife, the usual weapon although right now it felt foreign. The intramural desires for flawless destruction tugged at Dexter, made his heart pound a little faster, nearly full of the proximity of lawless venom. The waver in his wrists do not cease as the foot between a bound chest and the top of a dagger grew, elbows as straight as an arrow. The abrupt rip of physical contact does a great deal, discourteous slurs slipping from Kramer’s mouth like water, like slippery blood. Dexter stops to listen to it like the fool he is, but now another side packs his other ear, angrier than the restrained man. “ _Kill him_ , Dexter.”

Kramer stuck to his unrelenting guns, spitting words Morgan was more than familiar with but now found relatively aggravating. He’s on a ride, drifting fingers through strong winds in the crosshairs of his demise, or in the bristly sand writing up his shovel list, bleeding from his teeth. Kramer stains him with curses but all he can think about is the blown, tepid breath in his ear, the indignation. Hands, glacial to the bone, sheath over his clothed ones, vaguely intertwining fingers with his own, dicing up the edges as the blade lifts. A chin greets his shoulder, litters him in stern demands that he take action. He does, hastily lowering gripped palms, watching the blood soil the encircling plastic. Brian watches the torment in Kramer’s eyes, solely engrossed in the way the Kramer’s life spilt down the drain.

“Again,” Brian tells him in a demanding growl, and Dexter does. Though, this time, Brian’s hands aren’t on his and this stab is only Dexter’s.

As the reddened dagger, leaking of droplets, exited the hefty chest with nothing more than a swift tug. Dexter gave an emphasised exhale, pitching the skull of his head back as the thrill of the kill mitigates down to a simple quickened pulse. The brunet enabled it, conferring the bloodied corpse a number of once-overs before he took command of the situation, slowly wheeling down his eyes to comprehend the breathing Morgan. He pried himself from Dexter’s backside, momentarily distracted by the body before sage lookers flicker to the variety of tools. His lips creased, iniquity undoubtedly peaking at his emotions as he folded an arm against his chest, leant the other over it as his knuckles rest beneath his cleft chin.

His expectant brows almost frightened Dexter, who reluctantly hesitated. While advancing for the table with the parading utensils, his shoe squeaked against the plastic lining the ground, the only sound in the shipping container since the last choking, bloodied breaths of little Lawrence Kramer. His fingers perch the weapon down, discreetly picking up the bone saw to assiduously dismantle the limbs of the fresh corpse. He does not dither in hacking over either patella in no more than three beastly chops, maroon trickling against the planeness of the table. Each hack lacked any qualms, much to his solemn delight, though the conceivable choice to glance aside and note the brunet still watching him, admiring, maybe criticising his not-so-orderly slices, might’ve discouraged him a little. As long as it left no evidence, whatever got the job done worked. He had no need to cut with superlative precision, no need to decorate the streets with limbs, yet he still felt somewhat daunted by the eyes of Brian.

Brian gave out an exaggerated breath, already knowing the man to not believe in any faux adoration he chose to put out. “Your humane methods are right on the cards. Why not spice it up a little?”

“The more humane, the merrier.”

“Humane doesn’t mean balanced, little brother.” Throw some corpses into the verdant grass, speckle some fingertips and eyeballs into a public soup pottery barn, was what Brian Moser had been implying. Allow Harry’s Code to go forgotten, allow himself to alienate the rules and get a taste of pure freedom.

Dexter allowed the sizeable weapon in his hand to gain headway for the elbow joints, aptly scraping the plastered counter. Weak blood spilt, though all he can do is observantly eye the brunet. “I’m afraid your zodiac days are over, Brian.”

This had already been an argument calmly discussed prior. Brian would say things like that (murder, death, etc.) were inevitable, but Dexter would say nothing was. A butcher without meat was the same, to an extent, as a killer without killing. Though Dexter patently knew well of the wants and the refractory needs to stick a knife in skin they both shared, he couldn’t afford a public declaration that the Ice Truck Killer had returned.

There’s a faint smile on Brian's pink lips that leaves an unwanted aura. Dexter looks and can't help but think that those black curls are longer than they were before. His hands move to mercilessly saw at the man’s head, slicing blood vessels and though the red splattered like paint, a mere brush working its magic on a canvas, Brian dallied himself by cleaning up around the shipping container, reasonably mindless of the dismemberment feet away.

“My apartment,” Dexter spoke nonchalantly, as if his fists hadn't just carved several segments into a fleshy neck, cutting bone. “I keep it as an outlet. I’m, uh.. still with.. Rita.”

Brian’s arms gently halt, fists teeming of the plastic adorned on the walls. He purposefully intended for the intrigued smirk to show over his tanned face, all-ears to Dexter’s intimate sources. “The lovely Rita.”

Dexter never truly knew how his brother felt about Rita aside his overly-sarcastic remarks. Or Debra, besides the attempt at killing her. The way her unimpeachable name rolls down Brian’s tongue, scrapping along the way has Dexter on his toes. She was naturally very slender.

Dexter paused, some sense of wooziness drifting through his head, the ranginess of the shipping container intruding his focus on his handiwork. The screams of little boys follow along, but he holds his stance, thumbs at the ragged curve of Kramer's separated head. “She’s.. pregnant.”

“Pregnant.” Brian’s now looking right at him. There’s a breath. “I’m gonna have a nephew.” He tilted his head. “Or a niece.”

Dexter had partly neglected the reply, instead drowning in his own breathy disbelief. “I’m gonna be a dad.”

“You’re gonna have a kid,” Dexter glanced, noting the pink tongue pressing against pearly teeth as they meet eyes. Brian’s brows rigidly furrow. “That’s weird.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to see you ever having kids.”

“You’re right on the money with that one.”

“Help me wrap these up,” Dexter says, and though at the moment it seemed like a good thing to say, he regretted it right after. They were on the train down the tracks of communication, hand-holding and yet, it was nice but not wanted.

Brian ominously simpered, dropping whatever it was he had been doing to advance towards the bloody scene. “Thought you’d never ask.”

The man approached the counter with some level of casualty, black kitchen bags in hand. Dexter tucked the detached torso into the black plastic bag, promptly eyeing over the slashed and pitted cuts that litter it before Brian shuts it with an expert knot. He laboriously withdrew from the counter by an inch, dragging the entire soiled sheet from the table in one tug to stuff it into the bag with the torso. His dark-haired brother ambled the room, prying off each and every plastered sheet to load a bag. Dexter doesn’t allow the scraps of Brian’s subtle instability interfere with the provided normal mask he uses daily as he exited the container, moving to press the covered limbs into the car.

The night breeze is eerie against his skin, deafening him of its shrewd whistling. Behind, incredibly inadequate of the sounds of footsteps, the brunet appeared, hands carrying a bag containing evident shape of something squarish. He settled it on top, running his hands together stiffly before the narrowness of his chin tilted. Though they’re only half a foot near, Dexter is marginally able to distinguish each and every freckle and birthmark, bestrewing his shapely facial features and curved nose. Brian’s hand lands on his shoulder. “We should bond more often.”

Dexter moves to look, hazel greeting hopeful greens that mark Brian’s somewhat woeful look. He momentarily reflected the series of varying retorts but he doesn’t decide on them. They were all mean, and Dexter doesn’t think it would be right to give him poison when all Brian offered was bittersweet sugar. “Uh, yeah. Totally.”

Brian gives him a tightlipped smile, eyes never leaving the distant gleam in Dexter’s eyes, who hadn’t want it to be there, even as he left to slip into the passenger seat. Dexter idled, contemplated over his spent night and vacillating sentiments as the cold palm ripped its unobtrusive warmth from his shoulder. Harry taught him it was better to focus on the future rather the past, tells him to just march on with his life decisions even though Harry himself was a huge aspect of the past. His past.

The analyst shucked off those thoughts, shutting the trunk and climbing into the driver's seat. Brian watches him buckle his seatbelt after stripping off the gloves, in a fleeting trance with moderately parted lips all the while admiring his brother’s cautious manners. “Always such a stickler for rules.”

“Nothing wrong with following rules every once in a little while.” Dexter’s edgeless fingernail scraped the compressed texture of the wheeling, the other hand inserting the key.

Following the low purr of the engine, the rumbling of leather seats, Brian proceeded to watch his younger brother, lithe lips slanting into a faint but esoteric smile as the tips of his brows elevate to weigh down all the soundless words piecing off of his expression. This drive, his inert eyes don’t stroll towards the sheeny window that began to dampen of light drizzle. The purposeful action of angling to show the transparent obscurity in his eyes is prepossessing, gathers in each cranny of Dexter’s attention as Brian knowingly narrowed down the possibilities his younger brother would take. His hands neatly meet across his lap, the lower lid of his eye upending as he rolls his eyes. “I’m starving.”

Dexter regraded his distant plea, handled either side of the wheel with his tanned palms, digging the toe of his shoes into the pedal although his eyes were on Brian. He should draw the line there, make some stands and deny that plea because he was due for dinner with Deb later that night. For whatever reason, he rolls over and shows his belly. “Uh, there’s a, uh, Burger King not far from here. We can stop there.”

The brunet doesn’t chortle at the man’s doormat tendencies, merely deflected the charitable offer with an elegiac shift of his outer surface. Dexter furrowed his lips, noting the way the man seemingly found the compact watch strung around his thin wrist more interesting than his long-lost sibling. This time, Dexter is the one to start up conversations, though little and chopped and always varying of subjects of whatever he found appropriate in the drive to another chain. Though the conversations remained particularly inconsistent and he truly wanted to talk about their past, Brian revered Dexter’s awkward social skills. As they ate in silence omit the low radio, as though there wasn’t a dismantled body in their trunk. Brian had wanted to show that admiration, the plastic tube of the straw an inch from his lips before he assiduously watched the analyst. “Does Debra know about your ad-hoc graveyard shifts?” 

“She’s a cop, why would I tell her?”

“Doesn’t really seem like you’d ride out her interrogations.”

“Deb’s, uh.. a big ball of fire,” Dexter sighed, already thinking of what she’d say and the things she’d ask if he came home more than a minute late. “I scrape by with a lot on my plate. More than expected.” 

Brian hummed, more concerned with the large, unwanted tomato in his food rather than Dexter’s silent admittance of his family love for Debra. He quickly picked it out, lips pressed into a line before he meets the other. “Sounds like you’re out on a limb.”

“We all are,” and it was the undying truth. Dexter shifts, takes the drink from the cupholder and occupies himself with it instead of pressing more details into Brian’s mind. Quite the wondrous image Debra would soon be able to get a glimpse of, but Dexter doesn’t worry himself with that, which definitely wasn’t the smartest decision in the ballpark.


	3. Que Sera Sera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recently I haven’t been able to tell if my telogen effluvium is getting worse or better. Guess it’s all just a bind but we are getting somewhere. Some notes to know:
> 
> Dexter is around 36. Brian is 40. Debra is 29. 
> 
> Dexter gets his eyes and looks from their biological dad, but Brian gets his eyes and looks from their mother. Also I’m still deciding if they actually have the same dad (Joe) or not.

He leant his palms to the stable port, the left side, having already lugged the bags of a human corpse onto his familiar boat. He had shut off the engine a few yards in, the well upholstered winds reminded him of his temporary shortage of a conscience, the illusory residence of Harry Morgan. Harry pulled at Dexter’s chain, and though he utterly despised the truths Harry told him, he hated Brian’s more. They say eyes are the windows to the soul, and Dexter believes it to be no less than true. But Brian’s eyes unveil something indescribable, something full of unadulterated passion towards him even though he acted the opposite.

The willowy man had moved besides him right after stripping himself of his jacket to feel the cold air better, courteously angling his elbows against the border, hands entwined. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

The man had also carried the same indignant emotions Dexter had, the ones funded by the earth and its cruel, unacceptable morals. Dexter was much better at maintaining his discomfort, the everlasting disconcertment because of his inability to fit in with the rest of the world. Brian was too prominent, occasionally let his anger take over his stationary composure. He was the epitome of a perfect psychopath, excluding a few persistent infatuations. Brian marginally tilts, bending to give his brother an accessible view of his features, which was ridden of the faintest of all concern and sentiments— the rest were, in no doubts, already let go and submerging into the waves.

It occurs to Dexter that he had not been talking about the sky, the full moon that threatened to spill onto the surface of the ocean, but the momentarily feathery juncture of amnesty, wanting to address the seconds they pressed on together. Even though, he decided to turn a blind eye and whistle. “Yeah, I, uh, wouldn’t hold your breath. Weather in Miami can have some pretty sudden changes.”

Brian shrugged, angular features moving to resort back to that leniently fast manner of setting forth his varying emotions. “Italy’s down the same vein.”

“Why Italy?”

“Naturally, the mood just.. strikes you.” He glanced at Dexter, eyes partly blown.

Dexter hummed, immersing himself in the low croak of the boat and the wading of water. He could evenly commiserate with those terms, drift on Brian’s rarely shown wavelengths as if it hadn’t relatively counted. He shouldn’t pin his hopes on the formalisms his mind regularly bestowed, though once his sundry crevices betray the thought and find the deserted torso moderately leaned, he tastes the bitterness of betrayal. “I, uh.. get what you mean.”

Brian’s eyes had thinned as if the moon's light were the sun's rays while effortlessly reading through Dexter’s splenetic words. Why Italy? Brian could not stay in 1235 Mangrove Drive, couldn’t handle remaining in Florida knowing Dexter had chosen Debra, had chose wrong, so he traveled somewhere he knew he could temporarily reside in and not think of Dexter Morgan. Had it worked? Considering where he was, obviously not.

“Sometimes I’m afraid I won’t be able to control the darkness.” There’s an impromptu shadow shading his fields of vision, probably a given gimmick from the Dark Passenger. “Maybe a kid could change that.”

“Debra never stopped you from killing. What’s the difference?” She wasn’t family, but Brian wouldn’t go there. Not yet, at least. They both knew having a kid wouldn’t kill the everlasting crave for blood.

Dexter makes sure he has a glimpse of his brother’s dark eyes. “There could be a chance he could end up like me.”

“And for whatever reason, you wouldn’t be able to stomach a mini Dexter.” There is a faint, depraved glimmer in his eyes, the motley skin around his lips tugging into an amused frown.

“Wouldn’t exactly be the best idea to past ‘ _the code_ ’ down to another generation.” Dexter utterly detested the idea of his first son becoming a serial killer, could even feel his chest callously tighten. “On the other hand, a kid might actually make me feel normal.”

“Family doesn’t make you normal, Dexter.” He fixated on the tanned skin of his brother’s side, wanting to subtly brush away the worries that endlessly bugged him. Acting is a good killer’s specialty. The same way Brian had pretended to love Debra lay equal to Dexter’s ventures of a family to look more normal.

“I could settle for some plain vanilla route, but I don’t know if I love Rita. Not sure if I even know what love _is_.”

Brian does a sting between his teeth, leisurely rolls his eyes. “Real eye opener, jumping in with both feet for someone who may not even give two hoots. Why throw caution to the wind?”

“Because dwelling on the idea that I now have a family might be the only thing stopping me from having a blood-soaked field day. 

“You can reconsider.”

“Think it might be too late.” They share a glance, Brian’s eyes in bitter questioning. Dexter tightly exhales. “I, uh.. proposed yesterday. In front of the kids.”

He reinforced the grip of his hands together still dangling over the side of the boat, a breath leaving his mouth. He felt the strong spikes of displeasure but wouldn’t show it for Dexter’s sake. “Wouldn’t hold it against you.”

He couldn’t, even as much as he wanted to. You also can’t blame the victim if you didn’t really want to blame the loveable culprit. Brian doesn’t understand what Dexter sees in Rita, doesn’t want or need to understand any of her aspects (omit her slender body proportions). The analyst stilled for a moment, running over the marginal suggestions before promptly withdrawing from the boat’s edge. He mutely ducked down to find a plane seat towards the edge beneath silver railing.

Brian resisted the urge to iron a thumb against the fleshy skin of the bump of his throat, instead trailing his seaweed eyes over the pallidly-lit boat and the lofty trash-bags littering, landing on Dexter. The brunet wallowed in the cool air, loosened his trapezius muscle to momentarily lull his head from the secondhand chagrin. Dexter still treated him as if he were Rudy Cooper. He thought that maybe validating their dark aspects as similarities would bring them closer together, but instead it dragged them further apart. As if sensing the younger man’s fancy for a new portrait of the dark sky, Brian followed, indiscreetly toeing away a bag as he carefully took a seat besides his younger brother.

“So.. why did you return to Miami?”

Brian had never actually answered that question thoroughly. Dexter hadn’t bothered watching him even in the corner of his eye for that moment. Whether sour of guilt or just because he just simply hadn’t wanted to, he didn’t know himself. Brian Moser is like some diabolical mouser, slinking around void streets, turning humans pretty by his own nonsensical terms. In all truths, the only thing Dexter liked about Brian was the lack of hot, messy blood in his killing technique.

Dexter looks aside, sees the earth’s winds dragging back Brian’s curls, exhibiting more freckled skin. He meets his glance. “You crossed my mind, little brother.”

He anticipated that answer, but there was a side that wanted to hear it aloud, and another that actually wanted an in-depth reply. Dexter pressed his lips into a fine line, gaze once steady is now drifting to the cluttered ground of his boat, lips parted. “I, uh, figured.”

“Then why ask?”

“Had a hunch you’d start another bloodless string.” Brian languidly watches him, his seemingly stimulated words flooding through his head. Dexter looks away, could never indulge in steady eye contact the way his big brother could. Dexter sees the licit route covered in thorns presented to him, doesn’t quite deny it but surely doesn't stroll through it. “You ever wonder how different things could’ve been?”

Brian’s unsharpened fingernails absentmindedly drum against the cloth of his thigh, unwanted thoughts already building up. Though solemn, his face says it all. Brian isn’t interested in anything else than a life of murder with his hand in Dexter’s, but Dexter wouldn’t give it to him.

The redhead listened to the ocean moving lazily, pushing up against the flat of his boat. He thinks of all his preliminary kills right before skimming over the few days he lost his mind and gained his ways. Dexter added a brief shrug, not wanting to double-back from where they were now. “I still.. dream about it. Her. _Us_.”

Brian lays a palm against his shoulder, gives a consoling heart out to the younger man even though the action might have been more self-serving than intended. “Can’t blame you. You wear your heart on your sleeve.”

Who couldn’t? For a moment, Dexter sticks them both into the same pod, labeled them commensurate counterparts, forgetting they were not the same. He’s still living through the torturous recollections of their childhood, and since it’s only fragments of what he’s able to recover, the effect is twice as harrowing. Brian doesn’t have dreams, or nightmares. Just very passionate reveries.

“I find it more comfortable to play by society’s rules.”

“Except you don’t conform to society,” Brian enunciates. “You fake it.”

The reason why Dexter Morgan doesn’t conform to society’s standards is because he can’t. He can’t even abide by the law. His eyes dimly trail back over, a certain caliginosity laid out like a book for Brian to read. “Not faking it will put me back at square one.”

“It won’t be the end of the world if you don’t.”

“Won’t be the end of the world if I do.”

Brian doesn’t find the unpretentiously lined features of his baby brother more interesting than the exemplary roundness of the moon. Just for that moment, at least. Either way, inspecting each inch and millisecond of unusually vile skin move hadn’t been the feint in the play. Hadn’t mattered.

The point was that Dexter hadn’t wanted to mouth out any more words for the homicidal inciter for as long as possible, but it all dwindled when the brunet began to lean. “You were never meant to put down roots, kiss Harry’s leaves.” His hand, which was known to be rather uncaring, sheathed its underside against the curve of Dexter’s cheek with some stern gentleness, neatly turns his face away from the colourless gunwale. Brian does the moving, nears to see the man’s short eyelashes move with a blink, narrow lips compresses together to evade its own urges. “I’ve waited too long for this, little brother.”

Dexter’s on the fence, questioning each sensibility which must’ve been apparent in accords to the other seeming as he had moved the other palm to his other cheek. Dexter whispers, “How long?”

“Too long.” Brian’s modus operandi for subtly inveigling his person of objective worked well, always had, even so as his wrist angled as a digit unbends, thumbing the bristly skin of Dexter’s chin.

Brian’s unforeseen words has Dexter putting out a breath, a quivering exhale that momentarily expends his lungs of air. The brunet does not tenuously smile at him as he routinely would’ve, just courteously lends the touch Dexter needed to grasp the state of affairs. His upper lip grazes Dexter’s philtrum by a whisker, an act still up in the air about being delicate. His left gelid hand faltered down and against the left of Dexter’s neck, thumb pressed at the bump of his throat.

Dexter doesn’t know exactly where his own hands are. In all probabilities, they might still be by his side but they aren’t touching Brian for sure. The air around him tightens, assiduously thieved of its once doleful tranquility and midnight cool wind and replaced with some unusual meekness he never knew he had. He feels Brian’s lip vaguely press between his two, not enough to be considered anything but an accidental, yet completely intentional, touching of skin. It isn’t anything Dexter is used to, however. It isn’t like Rita’s sensual kisses, her lips against his with the searing feeling of arousal. Brian merely touches him with his mouth and he instantly becomes withdrawn from his smarter thoughts. Though, they do share an amount of dullness. Intimacy wasn’t his thing, would never be, because the voidness in his chest would always remain regardless of what he did.

Brian’s right palm uncoiled over the clothed wrist of the analyst, doesn’t quite grasp it but simply lays over it. In lieu of the faint connection of their mouths, their forehead meet, the way it had the time before. Brian’s virescent glance doesn’t redirect towards anything but the other’s stippled eyes, which persist on the sight of the brunet's thin lips. “The only warmth you’ll ever get is blood on your hands that isn’t yours, little brother.”

Dexter blinked shortly, not at all intending to turn a blind eye to the man’s underlining words but does anyway. He, instead, focuses on the air barely entering through his parted mouth and disregarded the mini ascendant Harry in his brain scolding him.

The hand lightly on Dexter’s neck moved to his shoulder, grasps it a little tighter to bring him into reality. Brian doesn’t care about the kiss, the intimacy. “Come with me, Dexter,” he says almost sorely though the leniency still remained.

The analyst gradually became more antsy with each second that slipped by. The skin of Brian’s forehead accompanied by the coarse black curls scrape against his own forehead. Dark green eyes and dilated pupils stare back at him, earnestly. Dexter shifted, having felt a little woozy. Maybe it was just seasickness. “Rita. The kids. Deb—”

“Fuck them,” Brian had growled, the first spike of anger all night, surprisingly. He narrowed down at the inching Dexter’s eyes do, a clear cue of a denial. He frowned just then, lines wheeling at his jaw before his right palm elevated to again tenderly hold at the man’s neck. Dexter couldn’t see the transient affection in Brian’s eyes, who had submerged it by nudging the curve of his nose against his jaw.

Dexter stops, the seasickness running him another wave. He touches the side of his head, and as he does, the brunet withdrew as if he had sensed the twinge. As much as he’d like to put an end to everything and everyone, the nature of his mind intercepts him from making those thoughts reality. Not sparing Brian wouldn’t make him any less a murderer. Dexter takes a breath, goes over his short list of sources before driving a laser at his objective. “I’ll, uh.. consider. It,” his palm groped at the side of his pant pocket, feeling the tune that vibrated out. He pried himself from Brian’s grip immediately.

“Don’t answer that,” Brian began.

“Morgan.” Brian had inaudibly groaned, stares into the empty space where Dexter once was who was now moving towards the middle of the boat, partly tripping over the littered bags in the process. Dexter made sure his back was turned to Brian before putting the phone to his ear.

“Dex, where the fuck are you?”

He grimaced. Now was the best and worst time to interrupt with a call. He turned over a shoulder to the dark-haired man who was already standing, picking around the bags with dismembered limbs. “It’s Deb,” he’d whisper-yell.

Brian looked relatively detached, more or less engrossed on the action of dropping leaden bags into the water with a grating splash. He still smiled at Dexter, which was more mordant than anything. “Big surprise.”

That impelled the analyst to continue to watch him, brows furrowing though he insured his tone was somewhat glad to be talking to his little sister. “I’m, uh,” he promptly checked his surroundings, “just out for a drink. Catching up with an old friend.”

“Holy shit, who would’ve known Dex, the one and only wallflower, has friends?”

Dexter hears the grin on her voice, sharply urges himself to comply with one though he was absolutely grave. “Yeah, uh, it was just a one-time thing. I’ll be home in like, twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes in _Dexter time_ is like four fuckin’ hours. Oh, and, shit, we’ve got like hella leads in our latest case. Freebo?”

God. Freebo. Why couldn’t they just leave it alone? Dexter moved to change the subject. “Uh, Dexter time?”

“Never fucking mind that. Just get your ass over here, the food’s gettin’ cold.”

Dexter tightens his lips. “Roger that.”

When Deb kills the line, he slipped the phone into his left pocket, shifting around to see the brunet crouching. Brian’s brows bow, a seemingly harmless smile working at his lips as his hands lightly press against the bag, thumbs feeling the dents and bumps of the facial features before tossing it into the other man’s unexpected hands. “Catch.”

“Uh, thanks,” Dexter leisurely says, though knew it was the weirdest thing to say right after he said it. He watches the concealed head plunge into the water, a breath leaving his mouth at the relief he’s flooded in when he does. “It’s, uh.. getting late. We should get back.”

Brian doesn’t seem to mind, face now a glass display of interest as he merely lugs up another bag and discarded it into the dark waves. “What course are we on?”

“Uh.. Deb. My place.” The analyst rolls his eyes, showing some lighthearted frustration as how often and how barely he’d been able to balance three worlds on his finger. Brian stifled a nod, rather ambivalent about picking up on the man’s words but said nothing as the man moved to start up the engine and drive them back.

Brian angled his arms, allows them to sway over the edge of the boat as he hung his head, placing back on the moments before. The buzz of the boat hums through the skin of his arms, the air in his dark curls that lean down over his brow, which is quickly picked up as he carefully turned his head. It shouldn’t have been the most difficult thing in the world to colour in the lines with Dexter’s approval, but he found it more impossible to inconsiderately coerce him into joining him rather than his victims for a meaningless one-night stand.

________

The apprehension of the situation doesn’t hit until he’s there himself, partially pacing, dread eating away at him as he’s paused in front of the door to his own apartment, too afraid to knock. Or to even unlock it with his own keys. Sheer uneasiness tore at his lungs, made him brood up a storm of dreadful things that could happen if he even touched that doorknob. Debra could answer, all slender and smiling until her eyes land on long-lost Rudy standing behind him. She pulls out her gun and shoots them both, Rudy twice. Did Deb even have her gun off-duty? Does she bring it when she comes over to his house? Dexter doesn’t know, and now the worry began to choke him.

“Cheer up, Dex. It’s just a door.” The red-headed man turned to see an expecting look glued to the other man’s face. Brian’s arms are crossed across his chest, dark jacket hooked over a forearm as the rain-scented wind tousled his hair. Dexter feels only heat.

“Deb’s a human dynamo. Nothing stands in her way,” Dexter mutters, and it isn’t a surprise that his own words further worries him. “She’ll kill you and then strangle me.”

“You could call it off.” Brian raises his brows, pleats lining them. “Go back to _Rita_.”

Wouldn’t be the first time Dexter cancelled plans with his little sister. Dexter still almost winces. “Rita, we’ve..” Had a fight. He’s still deep in hot water with her, had accidentally ignored a few of her calls yesterday from his trip with Miguel Prado.

“Jeez, Dex. You kill people for a living, but can’t thread the needle when it comes to women?” Dexter puts out a palm to hush him, but the brunet chooses to silence himself.

He could hear some fumbling around in his apartment, and for a number minute he contemplates grabbing Brian’s wrist and scurry back to the car, leave Miami and never return. What stops him is his wants and the door opening. All the air in Dexter’s lungs is taken from him when the wind of the door opening hits him, the lighting of inside the apartment flashing his eyes as a figure stepped beneath the doorway. “Dex! Holy shit.”

“Deb!” Dexter decides the door is opening much too fast and much too wide for his liking. He scrambled to briskly extend a hand, grappled the other, outer knob of the door and nearly latched it shut, opening it just enough for her to see only him and not the dark-haired serial killer waiting no more than a foot behind. “Hey.”

Dressed in a loose flannel and jeans, Debra Morgan looks at him, visibly disgruntled, her hand prying off her half of the knob as she slowly looked from the door. “What the fuck crawled up your ass this morning?”

“I, uh, hear ya about the whole, ‘ _Dexter time_ ,’ thing. A minute is like a day.” He even followed up with a wide, over-extensive grin, which is forced and it doesn’t help the fact that her face is still very wrinkled in disbelief. Brian, back leaning up against the metal railing and safely covered by the front of Dexter, watched, not sure to be amused or annoyed but feels the sting of both.

She eyed Dexter over like a shot, cordially scoffing with a nod as she added his weird behaviour on a mental list. Debra had gestured with her head though her eyes lay firmly on Dexter shoulder. “Well.. the food’s done.” They stare at each other in silence, and when her sharp gaze doesn’t give him the hint, she jerks. “Are you gonna fuckin’ come inside, or what? Shit, Dex.”

It was either here or never, to send Brian back which he really didn't want, for whatever inexplicable reason. He pressed his forehead against his folded forearm, profoundly mulling over what things could go right and what wrong, and by her face (which is growing more and more upset by each second), he’s almost scared. Folding his mouth, he enabled the door to fall from his grip, arm hanging loosely by his side. “Yeah, uh.”

The slender detective moved from her position by the corner, keenly peeking to see what it was the man had been not-so-subtly hiding. Dexter feels his feathers bristle, the unwanted breeze chilling the hair on his neck as he sees Debra’s tanned features scrunch up into some emotion he wasn’t able to identify. Harry hadn’t really taught him that, sensing and reading emotions. Brian could teach him, but with the way the spindly man faintly smirks, eyes only on the face of the clearly upset woman, he thinks otherwise.

Debra’s mouth moved but air came out, the skin of her face blossoming into some shade of red or white, maybe both. Her palms pull from the planeness of the wall, elevate to quiver at her face and tug her ruddy strands from her face. Her detesting gaze is enough to light a fire, though at this point it is nothing less than fear, pure impenetrable fear. Her feet succeed in taking her a few steps back but falter, legs stumbling until she’s tripped onto her backside with an agape mouth. Her palms feel at her side, searching for her gun but she never brought it with her. It was supposed to be dinner, not a perilous carnival with the Ice Truck Killer.

“Deb,” Dexter starts, urgently advancing to kneel at her side but she kicks him in the shin.

“What the _fuck_ , Dex!”

Brian, or Rudy Cooper, the dark-haired exhilarated serial killer pauses inside the doorway, arms still loosely crossed as he peered down at the detective with surpassing pity. He briefly considered her legs, his noteworthy fixation for limbs getting the best of him before he turns his chin to Dexter, eyes on Debra, wanting the younger man to say something.

The red-headed man upraises his arms as if in surrender for a second, not really wanting to get sucker-kicked in the shins again. It was something to mollify the situation, as if it’d actually do anything to mend the severed tufts of the rope wrapped around his neck. “Deb,” he tries, aims around the laser beaming at him, the burdensome urge to kill him. “He’s.. Rudy’s my.. brother.”

The words _Rudy_ and _brother_ feel completely foreign on his tongue, and it evidently shows on his face which is now furrowed. Debra, his dear foster sister, doesn’t seem to care as she’s gaping and trying to get ahold of the situation. Debra’s surrounded in white poppies, and as if they needed a satirical voice slipping in, adding more water to the already full glass, Brian nudges with his head, teeth showing. “Think she fainted.”

“Oh..” Dexter freezes, but at least his ears aren’t frozen. He’s in the arms of warmth. Debra isn’t unconscious, just.. in another world, if he could even call it that. The familiar buzzing in his left pocket vibrates. Rita. He meets Brian’s unimpressed green eyes. “Shit.”

Brian shrugged his folded arms, still bearing the weight of his jacket and even urged a gentle, though disappointed frown. “You know, you _really_ need to learn how to talk to women, little brother.” The woman’s, who’s nearly sprawled on the floor, eyelids shut. Dexter looks at Brian. “Oof..” Brian’s smiling with furrowed brows. “Think we lost her.”


End file.
